The Spring Festival was the most important holiday of the year for chinese people, holding a unique and irreplaceable significance in every Chinese heart.
Wanderers who had spent a year struggling away from home would, driven by the obsession of "whether rich or poor, go home to celebrate the New Year," stuff whatever their pockets held and resolutely set out on the road home, all for a bowl of mom's dumplings and the warmth of family.
Even prisoners behind iron bars would receive a serving of dumplings, a constant reminder that someone outside was still waiting for them to come home and reunite.
Yet when those dumplings entered their mouths, no one knew what they tasted like.
Xiahou Rongsheng had stared blankly at his serving of dumplings for ten minutes.
Though his stomach had been pleading to be fed for ten straight minutes, he still had not picked up his chopsticks. He merely sat there in silence, dazed, tears slowly streaming down his face.
It was too stifling. Too regretful.
Just over a month ago, Xiahou Rongsheng had been a young and accomplished son of Beijing, riding high on the spring breeze. His living conditions far surpassed those of ordinary people; he had been a genuine man above men.
Everyone around him had envied Xiahou Rongsheng—envied his boundlessly bright future, envied the beautiful and elegant girlfriend by his side.
But on that night just over a month ago, all that beauty had shattered.
When Professor Xiahou Qingzhi had burst into the room, everything before his eyes had seemed absurd and revolting.
His father, who had always put on such a dignified face, had actually committed the act of stealing his son's wife—yet his father clearly knew that Yuli was the woman he loved!
Young men had hot blood and even